


Apples and Quinces

by skazkanasmorka



Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazkanasmorka/pseuds/skazkanasmorka
Summary: Laura's enthralled; Lizzie resists.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegirlwiththemouseyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide!

Dark and light are one. In the blinding whiteness, in the flecks of whiteness in the river, in the flame, shadows dance and dart about. In the foreboding shadows, in the dark of the sky, in the black depths of the stream, Laura sees sparks and starbursts. All opposites circle, engage, and resolve themselves into one, and Laura knows that all conflict, all being is a process within a whole. The stalls shimmer, their solidity compromised, looking as if they were ethereal projections from an unseen source; but these malicious, gleeful faces look more solid, more real than anything she has ever seen before. The ridges in their skin, these hateful beady eyes, they are all sharp, sharp, sharp and maybe they are the only things in the world that are real. They have sharp teeth that gleam so brightly that Laura thinks they look like oddly-shaped lightbulbs, and she laughs at the thought. As soon as laughter bubbles in her throat it flows from her body like an unstoppable, effervescent stream, and she is lighter than anything, so light that she thinks she can feel the air beneath the shoes, between her feet and her shoes. She feels encased in a protective suit of air, of clouds, and nothing bad can penetrate through and hurt her. These faces laugh with her, shrill cries like the ringing of bells portending an unfortunate visitor. She is so happy. She has never been this happy. She smiles down at the stream and thinks, this water is the world, this water is the land. She wants to be in the water.

But Lizzie. 

Lizzie needs to come with her. She can’t leave her sister behind. Lizzie deserves to know this joy, to be possessed by bliss as she has.

Laura pivots in a circle, trying to feel the direction of their cabin in this directionless, floating space. “I’m going to go home,” she says aloud.

“Stay,” she hears. “Stay with us, have some more.” 

“I’d love to, but I want to bring my sister tomorrow.”

“Come buy, come buy.”

Soft, sweet flesh is pressed against her lips, the juices run down her mouth. She lifts a hand to wipe the juices and then licks her hands, reluctant to allow any of the nectar to go to waste. A pleasant burning thrums in her, and she feels like her mind has been flung in all directions, like a tarp shot outwards to drape the land around her and feel the soft dirt, the tickling grass, the endless stream.

“Thank you, thank you,” she cries out gaily, feeling like a small girl again. “Thank you!”

The market whirls away from her. A skip infiltrates her steps on the way back home. She must tell Lizzie. Lizzie deserves to feel this happiness.

Her home gets closer. She does not see, but rather feels the fresh loaf of bread waiting to be consumed on the kitchen counter, the worn rug soft in the way only something lovingly used could be, the humble bunch of daisies Lizzie picked in the glass vase on the table. She feels her sister’s love, and her heart strains with fullness.

She smells the light in the beaming forth from the windows and hears the beating vitality of the wooden walls. 

Then.

Color drains away. Laura is trapped in shades of grey. A wind chills her, and she waits for the happiness to return. It doesn’t. Her mouth itches for the nectar, her hands twitch for the fruit; she turns around and the stalls and faces are gone, as if they had never been there. She faintly remembers the sensation of happiness, but it feels as if she is looking at a corroded etching. No longer part of her, perhaps never part of her, simply an inaccessible image fading by the moment. 

Through a haze of misery, she perceives the outlines of their cottage and the blurs of light that might be the windows. She can hear the concerned tones of Lizzie’s voice, even though she can’t make out distinct words. The pleasant blur from earlier has been replaced with a cataract-like mist she can’t dispel. The familiar fields are cloaked in an ominous haze, reduced from thing to form. Laura feels her mouth open. She feels her vocal cords vibrate and air flow past her lips. Whatever words she manages to expel, though, she does not know.

All she hears is ringing laughter; her blood simmers with desire to taste the nectar again. 

_Apples and quinces,_  
Lemons and oranges,  
Plump unpeck’d cherries,  
Melons and raspberries,  
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,  
Swart-headed mulberries,  
Wild free-born cranberries,  
Crab-apples, dewberries,  
Pine-apples, blackberries,  
Apricots, strawberries;— 

*

The animal faces jeer and screech and howl. Scratches and bruises appear on her skin from the speedy forces battering her, invisible to the human eye. Scales sweep past and rat-like tails whip her wrists. The goblins swarm around her, crushing fruits against her skin and against her mouth. Cold, sticky liquid runs down her arms and legs. 

She presses her lips together, determined not to let a single drop slip into her mouth. She clings to the image of Laura’s skeletal body lying prone on their bed for motivation to endure even as sharp claws seem to dig into her flesh. 

Laura struggles more with the two of them being alone, miles away from the nearest town. She yearns for excitement, mystery, an exit from their quiet lives. Lizzie knows that, were it not for her, Laura would have long ago set out for the city and never looked back. The silver penny, taken from Laura’s poorly hidden bag where she has been storing small change for, lies on the ground. Lizzie glimpses it through whirling bodies, and it gleams like hope. Just a bit longer, she thinks. They’ll give up before she does.

The screeches skyrocket in pitch as the goblins pummel her with redoubled fervor. She nearly gasps in pain but swallows it before her lips can part to allow juices to dribble in. 

Her eyes fix on the penny on the ground and she remembers: Laura mischievously splashing her with water from the pitcher at the stream the day before; Laura picking daisies for their vase on the kitchen table; Laura marveling at the bustling crowds when they trekked into town. 

As Lizzie takes herself through a montage of her sister’s face, the whirlwind of furious goblins abates and she finds herself teetering on her feet, covered in sticky juices and pulp. A delighted laughter escapes her. She picks up the silver penny, slides it into her pocket, and sets out for home, her steps speeding into a full-blown sprint. 

*

Lizzie rises with the sun. She always has. This way, Lizzie thinks, she gets to watch the world be reborn each day, purified of the previous day’s missteps and tribulations. She will never tire of watching light dispel the darkness. It fortifies her.

The view outside of the cottage Lizzie shares with her sister may be unremarkable to some, but she loves it nonetheless. On a clear morning like this one, soft tendrils of the dawn light curl upward from below the horizon, casting a dewy newness over the land. Emerald grass, ever bright from the regular rainfall, undulates into the distance, with only an oblong patch of barren dirt interrupting the brilliant green. 

When even the far reaches of the hills are bathed in a luminous glow and the morning has settled into the world, Lizzie returns inside, puts on the kettle, and prepares her morning tea and toast. She watches steam waft from the amber liquid. She hears her sister shuffling around getting dressed and smiles, triumphant.


End file.
